PROLOGUE.
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VIctorious SIR, s[ti]ll faithful to thy Word,
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Who Conquer more by Kindness then by Sword,
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As thy Ancesto[r]s brave with matchless Vigor
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Caus'd Hogen Mogon make so great a Figure.
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So Thou that art great Britains only Moyses;
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To guard our Ancient Thistle with the Roses:
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The discords of the Haro, in tune to bring
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And crub the pride of Lillies in the Spring.
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Permit, Great SIR, poor Us amongst the Press
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In humble terms, to make this blunt Address;
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In Linton Verse, for as your Highness knows
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You have good store of Nonesense else in Prose.
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SIR, first of all that it may please
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Your Highness to give Us an ease,
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Of our Oppressions more or less,
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Especially that Knave the Cess.
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And Poverty for Pity crys
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To modifie our dear Excise:
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If You'l not trust Us when we say't,
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Faith, SIR, We are not able to pay't:
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Which makes Us sigh when we should sleep,
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And fast when We should go to Meat:
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Yea scarce can get it when to borrow,
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Yet drink we must to slocken sorrow;
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For this our Grief, SIR, makes Us now
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Sleep seldom sound till We be fow.
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SIR, Let no needless Forces stand,
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To plague this poor, but valiant Land,
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And let no Rhetorick procure
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Pensions only but to the Poor.
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That Spendthrift Courtiers get no share
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To make the King's Exchequer bare.
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Then Valiant SIR, We beg at large,
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You will free Quarters quite discharge.
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We dwell upon the King's high Street,
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And scarce a day we miss some Cheat.
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For Horse and Foot when they come by,
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SIR, be they Hungry, Cold or Dry;
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They Eat and Drink, and burn our Peats,
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With feind a Farthing in their Breicks.
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Destroy our Hey, and press our Horse,
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Whiles break our Head's and that is worse
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Consume both Men and Horses Meat,
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And make both Wives and Bairns to greit,
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By what is said your Highness may
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Judge if two Stipends we can pay:
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And therefore if You wish us well
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You must with all speed Reconcile;
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Two Jangling Sons of the same Mother,
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Elliot and Hay with one another;
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Pardon Us, SIR, for all Your Witt,
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I fear that prove a kittle Putt.
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Which tho' the wiser Sort condole,
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Our Linton Wives still blow the Coal;
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And Women here as well we ken,
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Would have Us all [John] Thomsons Men.
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Therefore, dear SIR, e[']re You be gone,
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Cast Kirk and Meeting-House in one;
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Whose mutual Charities are as scant
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As Papists is to Protestant.
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SIR, it was said ere I was born,
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Who blows best bears away the Horn;
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And he that Lives and Preaches best
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Should win the Pulpit from the rest.
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The next Petition that We make,
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Is that for brave Old Teviots sake,
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Who had great Kindness for this Place,
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You'l move the Duke our Masters Grace,
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To put a Knock upon our Steeple,
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To shew the Hours to Countrey People:
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For We that live into the Town,
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Our sight grows dim by Sun go down.
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And charge, SIR, our Street to mend,
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And Cassey it from end to end.
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Pay but the Workmen for their pains,
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And we will joyntly lead the Stones,
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In ease your Highness put him to it,
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The Mercat Customs well may do it.
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As for himself he is not rash,
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Because he wants the ready Cash;
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For if your Highness for some Reasons,
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Should honour Linton with your Presence;
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Your milk white Pelfrey would turn brown,
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E're you ryde half but throw the Town.
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And that would put upon our Name,
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A blot of everlasting Shame
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Who are reputed Honest Fellows,
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And stout as ever William Wallace.
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Lastly, Great SIR, discharge us all.
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To go to Court without a Call,
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Discharge Laird Gifferd and Hog Yards,
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James Dowglas and our Linton Lairds;
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Old William Younger and Geordy Purdy,
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Laird Giffoord, Scroges, and little Swordie
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And English Andrew, who has skill,
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To Knap at every word so well.
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Let Kingside stay for the Town-Head,
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Till that old Peevish Wife be Dead;
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And that they go on no pretence,
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To put this Place to great Expence.
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Nor yet shall contribute their share,
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To any who are going there.
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To strive to be the greatest Minione
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Or plead for this, or that Opinion
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If we have any things to spair,
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Poor Widows they should be our Care:
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The Fatherless, the Blind, the Lame,
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That Sterve, and to Beg think shame.
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So Fare-well, SIR, here is no Treason
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But wealth of Ryme and part of Reason.
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And for to save some needless Coast,
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We send this our Address by Post.
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EPILOGUE.
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THrice Noble ORANGE, Bless'd be the Time,
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Such fair Fruit prosper'd in our Northren Clime:
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Whose Sweet and Cordial Joyce affoords us Matter,
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And Sauce to make our Capons eat the better.
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Long may Thou thrive and still thy Arms Advance,
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Till England send an Orange into France:
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Well guarded thorrow proud Neptun's Wawes, and then
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What's sweet to us, may prove sour Sauce to them.
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As England does, so Caledonia boasts,
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She'l Fight with Orange for the Lord of Hosts.
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And tho' the Tyrrant hath unsheath'd his Sword,
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Fy fear him not, he never keep't his word.
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